Moon
by Northumbrian
Summary: Her friends are getting older, getting married, and having children. Lavender Brown doesn't have a boyfriend, not a proper boyfriend anyway. What she has are issues, and these days most of them are Moon-related.
1. Occlusion

**1: Occlusion**

His face was – odd – he wasn't ugly, but he wasn't good looking, either. She glanced across the path, surreptitiously examining him more closely.

She reckoned him to be somewhere in his mid- to late-twenties, about her own age. His features were regular, but a little strange. He reminded her of one of those police photo-fit pictures. All the right pieces were there, but, somehow, not quite fitting together properly. His hair was a nondescript mid-brown and his eyes were brown, too. He was remarkably unremarkable.

Janey Scott continued to peer over the top of her newspaper at this tantalisingly familiar face in the crowd. The man was tall, slim and gangling, standing a couple of inches over six feet. Princes Street Gardens were busy; people headed towards Waverley Station at the end of their working day. He, however, wasn't moving. He was scanning the crowds anxiously, looking over the tops of most heads; he was waiting for someone.

The man was, like her, sitting on a park bench. Unlike her, he was unable to stay seated; every few seconds he stood and looked around – first one way, then the other. He would stare down the path towards the fountain, then he'd turn towards Scott Monument; finally, his head would twitch and he'd gaze desperately up towards Princes Street. It was this constant motion which had first attracted her attention.

He was waiting for a girl, she guessed. She continued to stare, trying to put a name to this half-remembered face. Perhaps it was simply a false familiarity brought about by his ordinariness. Did she really know him? There was certainly something – but what?

She folded up her newspaper, drained the dregs of her coffee from the paper cup, and re-examined the man who had captured her gaze. His over-large feet were encased in rather tattered baseball boots. He wore faded blue jeans and a thick green Aran pullover. She knew him – the more she looked, the more she was convinced of this. Something about him reminded her of home, of Kirkcudbright.

A sombre family walked slowly past her; lanky boy, scrawny girl, silent mother, and surly father. That was enough to spark a long-forgotten memory; she stood up from her own park bench, dropped her empty coffee cup in the litter bin, and walked across to the object of her attention.

'Are ye called Mark Moon?' she asked him curiously. He was startled. She watched with amusement as his expression slipped from surprise, through confusion, into curiosity. He _was_ Mark Moon, but he didn't recognise her, and he was desperately trying to decide whether or not he knew her. He examined her carefully and appraisingly before he spoke.

'You seem to know me,' he said. 'But I don't remember you, I'm sorry.'

'Jane Scott, Mark; most folk called me Janey when ye knew me.' She ended his confusion. 'Ye went to school in Kirkcudbright with me, afore ye went off to some fancy school in the Highlands. I only saw ye a few times over the summer holidays after that.' Her reply was greeted by slack-jawed astonishment and dawning recognition.

'Kirr-KOO-bree,' he said, pronouncing their hometown's name slowly and correctly, revelling in rolling the initial "R". He'd lost most of his accent, she noticed; his west coast brogue had been replaced by Edinburgh posh. 'I remember you now, Janey Scott. I'm sorry that I didn't recognise you.'

'So, how are you, Mark Moon? You look well. How's life in the big city? Do you work here? Live here?' Janey fired her questions at him rapidly. Mark's eyes widened and he swayed sideways, as if he were trying to physically dodge her enquiries. He'd always been a quiet and secretive boy and there had been a lot of gossip about his family, especially after his mother had left home. She'd asked him too much, so she changed tack.

'I've just got a new job, here in Edinburgh,' she told him. 'I've only been here a month, and I'm still a wee bit lost. I was married at nineteen, divorced at twenty-five – he was a pig – no kids, thank goodness. So here I am, two years later, young-ish, free and single.' _And lonely, and desperate to find some friends in the big city_ she thought to herself. 'What about you?'

'I work for the Sheriff's Office,' he said. 'I've been there since I left school; pretty much, anyway. I started here, got a promotion and moved to England for a year – Yorkshire. Then I got another promotion – at Christmas just gone – and moved back. Fortunately, I'd kept my flat on.'

'The Sheriff's Office?' she asked.

'Aye, we work with the Procurator Fiscal, criminal investigation stuff, but I'm no' a poliss,' he told her. She smiled as she noticed his posh accent slipping.

'Good for you, Mark; I'm a clerk in the Parliament, so we're both civil servants, eh?'

Mark nodded. 'I suppose so.'

'So how's the family? That sister of yours must be – what – twenty-two or twenty-three; is she married?'

'She was killed when she was seventeen.' His voice was flat and factual. 'Murdered!' He turned his head away from Janey and looked up at the granite cliff behind him, up to walls of Edinburgh Castle.

'I'm sorry,' she said, placing a consoling hand on his arm. 'Oh, Mark, I'm really sorry. I was always an interfering busybody, always putting my foot in it.'

'It's okay, you couldnae ha' known,' he said. His eyes, however, told her that this was a wound still unhealed. From his forcedly blank expression, Janey knew that it would be foolish to broach that topic again and, unusually, she was lost for words. She shared a few moment of silent sadness with him before she felt able to speak.

'I'll just leave ye to wait for yer girlfriend, shall I?' Janey suggested, squeezing his arm consolingly before releasing it.

'Girlfriend?' He sounded surprised.

'Jesus, it's no' a _boyfriend_ yer waiting for, is it?' she teased. 'Hell, there I go again, always putting my foot in it. "Ye're hopeless, Janey Scott!" My Ma still tells me that. She says that I should always remember to engage ma brain afore I open ma gob.'

'It's a girl, but she's not my girlfriend.' Mark finally told her what she had wanted to know. 'She's just a friend who's female. We meet up several times a week and have a meal and a drink; maybe go to the pictures, or the theatre, or a concert.'

'That sounds good.' Janey smiled. _But you want to be more than friends with her, don't you, Mark?_ she thought.

'Maybe we could do that sometime, too. Catch up on old times; what do you think?' she continued. 'I dinnae have many friends here. So, could we arrange to meet for a drink sometime? Best do it afore yer other woman gets here, though.'

'The other woman, is that what I am?' a voice asked acidly. 'I didn't know that you went for fat girls, Mark.'

Mark jumped and blushed.

_Fat, I'll give ye fat, ye wee scrap o' nowt,_ Janey thought as she examined the new arrival.

Janey had noticed the woman approaching from behind Mark, but had instantly dismissed the possibility that _she_ was the girl Mark was waiting for. The newcomer was much too elegant and good looking for the scruffy and rather weird-looking Mark.

The girl was curvy, attractive, very well dressed, and a lot shorter than Mark. Exactly how much shorter was difficult to determine, although even in her expensive red stilettos she didn't reach his shoulder. The girl's pretty, oval face was surrounded by a mass of brown curls and her eyes were an unusually violet blue.

The aggressive newcomer was assessing Janey, too. Janey immediately realised that her store-bought raincoat and well worn pinstripe trouser suit looked positively shabby next to the violet-eyed woman's expensive-looking red leather jacket.

The girl's jacket was buttoned up to the neck against the chill March wind. It was a short jacket, barely covering her well-rounded backside, and a mere three inches of black skirt protruded from beneath it. Several male passers-by were staring at the woman's black-stockinged legs. _Good looking, and she knows it,_ thought Janey.

From the few words she had spoken, Janey realised that the woman was English.

'You'll be the girl that's no' Mark's girlfriend.' Janey began her counter-attack. 'If he says ye're no' his girlfriend, then ye're no'. So why're ye fashin' yersel aboot him talking te me?'

'Fashing? What?' the girl queried.

'It means bother, or annoy,' interjected Mark, trying to keep the peace. 'Lavender, this is Janey Scott; I went to school with her until I was eleven. Janey, this is my … friend … Lavender Brown.'

'Hello, wee Lavender, who's no his girlfriend,' said Janey vindictively.

'What do you mean, I'm not his girlfriend?' Lavender asked.

'Ach, ye're one o' _those_ lassies, are ye?' Janey asked Lavender. _Lavender? What sort of name was Lavender?_ 'This lanky lump telt me that ye meet regular, but that ye're no' goin' oot wi' each other. That'll be your idea, I've nae doubt. Ye're keeping the lad danglin' and waitin' te see if ye get a better offer. An' wi' a skirt that short, I'll bet that ye get a lot of offers.' Janey turned dismissively from Lavender and looked up at her now nervous former schoolfriend.

'Ye can dae better for yersel' than this wee hussy, Mark.' She fumbled for her purse, pulled out a business card, and handed it to him. 'Here's ma work number; if ye fancy a drink and a bit o' craic aboot the old days, gi' me a ring. Bye, Mark, it was nice te see ye after all these years.'

With that, Janey Scott turned on her heels and strode away.

'What a cow,' Lavender said loudly.

'Teks one te know one, ya bas,' Janey shouted back over her shoulder, revelling in the childishness of her response.

People were beginning to stop and stare. Satisfied with herself, Janey Scott continued on her way. Poor Mark. She wondered if she would be able to track him down through the Scottish Office mail system. There couldn't be many Mark Moons in the world. He'd been a nice lad, quiet and reliable. And after her ex-husband, "quiet" and "reliable" were traits she valued in a man.

_Dinnae get yer hopes up, Janey_ she thought. _The wee Sassenach lassie's got him wrapped around her little finger._

As she strode away without a backward glance she wondered how the conversation between Mark and his not-girlfriend was going.

_**Author's Note:**__ Hopefully most of the dialect in this chapter will not be completely impenetrable. "Ye" instead of "you," and "aye" instead of "yes" are common dialect words in the north of England and Scotland. "Craic" (sometimes spelt and pronounced "crack") means chat or gossip._


	2. Eclipse

**2: Eclipse**

Mark grabbed Lavender's arm and held it tightly, preventing her from chasing after Janey.

'Calm down, Lavender,' he said quietly. 'Why are you so annoyed?'

She turned on him, lips pursed and nostrils flaring. He recognised the signs; a dam was about to burst. Despite his worry about what she might say, he was filled with hope too. He released her arm and braced himself for the flood.

'Why am I annoyed? You don't know? You can be such an idiot, Mark; a rude, arrogant and ignorant idiot.'

Her first words washed harmlessly around him. Mark Moon never lost his temper; everyone in the Scottish Magical Law Enforcement Office knew that. He prided himself in his ability to remain unmoved by any insult, to remain detached and dispassionate. After five months with Lavender, he'd been on the sharp end of her tongue more than once, and he knew that he should simply ignore the barbs.

'Me? Rude?' he said mildly. 'I was simply talking to someone I haven't seen since school, and you waltzed up and picked a fight with her.'

'She was chatting you up!' spat Lavender.

'She was trying, I think, but so what?' asked Mark reasonably. While Janey Scott's acerbic observations had annoyed him, there was, he realised, a lot of truth in them. He needed to clear things up with Lavender, and Janey had given him the opportunity.

'It's not like no one's ever tried chatting you up, Lavender. They've even done it in front of me. But remember what you told me when I asked you out. "I don't want a boyfriend right now; I've had far too many bad experiences. And, anyway, _I don't fancy you!_ But we could meet occasionally for a meal or something." They were your exact words.' Lavender opened her mouth to speak, but Mark cut across her protestations.

'That was almost six months ago, Lavender, and we're in a routine.' He looked down into her violet eyes and tried to make her understand. 'I enjoy your company, you know that. I think that you enjoy mine, too. But what am I? Is Janey right, am I the standby bloke? At first, we met once a week, then twice a week; Wednesday nights here in Edinburgh, Saturday nights in London. Now we meet up on other nights, and most weekends, too. I took you to the Scottish Office Ball, and you took me to the Ministry Ball. I even turned down my invitation to the Scottish Office Hogmanay celebrations and went to the Potters' New Year's Eve party with you instead. You're English; you have no idea how big a thing missing Hogmanay in Edinburgh was.

'When I asked you out, you said, "let's just be friends," and you told me that you weren't ready for a relationship, because they never lasted. Well, this non-relationship has lasted more than five months; is that a record for you?' Mark realised that he was beginning to sound petulant, but his emotions had undermined his attempt to stay calm, and he couldn't stop himself.

'I forgot; this isn't a relationship, is it? Not in the way _you_ define it, anyway.' He failed to keep the bitterness from his voice.

'I see you more often than I see anyone, other than my workmates. So far as I'm concerned, it _is_ a relationship, even if, physically, it's no more than a polite kiss on the cheek when we say goodbye. Perhaps it's run its course; perhaps it's time for us both to move on.' Mark paused for breath. For the first time since he'd met her, Lavender did not make a snappy comeback. She looked at him in astonishment. Now, he'd tell her.

'I need either less or more,' continued Mark remorselessly. He felt empowered by the injustice of Lavender's attitude towards his old schoolmate. 'It's taken big daft Janey Scott to make me realise that. If you don't fancy me, and we're not going out together, then you've no reason to be bitchy when I talk to other women. You're the one who said, "We can see other people if we want to," and well, perhaps I want to.'

He was well aware that the people hurrying through the chill March evening were slowing as they passed, watching this little drama unfold. It was entirely possible that some bloke who fancied his chances with the curvy girl who was staring speechlessly up into his face would actually ask Lavender if "this guy" was bothering her. It had happened the last time they'd argued, much to Lavender's amusement.

She remained silent, lost for words; Mark wondered if he had managed to get through to her. He wasn't usually one for talking, he was a listener. This was probably the longest uninterrupted speech he'd ever made to her.

Hope continued to bubble up inside him. He'd been talking to another woman, one nowhere near as attractive as she was, but Lavender had appeared to be jealous. Perhaps she _did_ have feelings for him. He should tell her how he felt, but she'd probably laugh at him.

'I know that you say you don't fancy me; you tell me that all the time,' he continued. 'The first time we went out, you made me promise not to talk about personal matters. We don't talk about my family, or yours. And I know that you went out on a date with that American Law Officer in December when he came over for the Conference. You told me that nothing happened between the two of you. But you took delight in telling me how close he got. You must know how I feel about you, Lavender. You torture me and I take it, and I don't know why! I know that lots of blokes find you attractive! Bloody hell, I'm one of them! But you can be so … so … obnoxious to people, sometimes.'

'You know why _that_ is,' said Lavender dismissively.

'Your "condition" is to blame for everything in your eyes, isn't it? You use it as a wall to keep everyone away, even me. You claim that people mistrust you because of it, but in fact you use it to make them mistrust you. People don't hate you because of _what_ you are, Lavender. _If_ they hate you, it's because of _who_ you are. Deep down, I think that you know that.'

He stared down into her remarkable eyes, took a deep breath, and continued. 'I tell you all the time that what you are doesn't matter to me, but you won't believe me. You won't believe anyone. Because you don't want to! You want to be able to use that excuse.'

Lavender was beginning to boil, he realised, but he needed to finish. When she finally opened her mouth to speak, Mark cut across her again.

'You're going to use the "time of the month" argument again, aren't you? You always do, when it suits your purposes. I know what day it is; I watch the moon's phases. The full moon is still two days away, and it does _not_ affect your mood. It's simply an excuse for you to be bitchy if you feel like it. I've seen you through five months of full moons.

'Remember last month? We met for lunch, not dinner, because it was full moon night. Afterwards, we wandered around the castle.' He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the imposing granite mass behind him. 'We were having such a good time that we forgot what time it was. The moon had been up half an hour before you realised and left. That was only half an hour before sunset, and you were fine! You were happy and laughing, so please don't use _that_ excuse.' Finally finished, he waited for her response.

'Enough,' Lavender snapped. 'I've heard enough of this nonsense from you! You're pathetic, Mark! Look at you; a lanky scruff in tatty clothes! Don't you care about your appearance?'

'That's right.' Mark lost his patience, and for the first time raised his voice to her. 'Change the subject; don't even acknowledge that I might be _right_. I'm comfortable in these clothes, and you've never complained about them before. If you want me to look smart, I will. All you have to do is ask; all you ever have to do is ask.'

'Ask? Why? Do I _always_ have to lead you by the nose, Mark?' Lavender responded by raising her voice to an angry screech. 'Use your initiative; decide for yourself what to wear. You trot about like a well-trained dog. Merlin, you can be so bloody annoying. You don't talk to me, and you never tell me anything about yourself.'

'Because I can't get a word in edgeways, you never shut up, and you have never, ever, asked me anything about myself. You want to know about everyone's business but mine, Lavender. But that's what _you_ decided, remember. On the few occasions the conversation moves towards me, or my family, or your family, you change the subject. Just make your mind up! If you want to know about me, I'll tell you. Janey Scott knows more about my family than you, and she's a Muggle who I haven't seen for a dozen years. I think that you're afraid that the more you know about me, the more you might like me.'

Lavender laughed sarcastically.

'Like you _more_? I could hardly like you less! You're completely bloody spineless, you never initiate anything. It's always: "What do you want to do, Lavender?" Why don't you ever make a suggestion, make a decision? You couldn't make a decision if your life depended upon it.'

'I do make suggestions, but you usually say no and suggest something else. We always end up doing what you want anyway. All I'm doing is saving myself some grief.'

'Because you're weak and cowardly and you won't fight me.'

'Because I want you to be happy and I don't _want_ to fight you. I … I like you.'

'You like me? You _like_ me! Well, that's great. You have no idea about girls, do you? Have you ever had a girlfriend? Sometimes I think that I'm the first. Is that right, Mark?' Am I "the only girl you've ever _liked_," well, that must be tragic for you, mustn't it, given my reputation?'

'I … that's not fair ... I've never said anything about … about … what you got up to before we met. But I don't think that _you're_ particularly proud of yourself, either. Why should it matter if I've never had a proper girlfriend?

'Proud of myself, of course I'm proud of myself! I'm Lavender Brown, Order of Merlin, second class, hero of Hogwarts. You're some plain and pathetic nobody who's never had a girlfriend.'

'You … damn ... I … I have … but…'

'Stammer away, Mark, you can't do anything; you're too indecisive,' she told him cattily.

'Lavender Brown, do you want to go out with me on a date, a proper date?' he asked angrily.

'I told you the first time you asked, no!'

'Fine; goodbye, Lavender, I won't bother you again.' He turned on his heels and strode away.

'That's right! Run away! You're just like every other man, you all run away!' she yelled at him.

'No, you drive us away, Lavender,' he shouted over his shoulder.

'We're finished, Mark.'

'You can't finish with me, Lavender, because we were never started.'


	3. Aphelion

**3: Aphelion**

Lavender finished her story, loudly blew her nose, slumped despondently back in the comfortable armchair and sipped her chai.

'Sorry for turning up unannounced, Parvati,' she said, 'I didn't know where else to go.'

Parvati Rathod stood, stretched, and placed her hands on her swollen belly. 'That's okay, Lavender, Parindra is working the late shift at St Mungo's and I wasn't doing anything important. I suppose that it's best that this happened now, because in three months I don't expect that I will have much time for anything or anyone but this little kicker.' She looked down, smiled, and gently massaged her bump.

Lavender watched the action, an oddly wistful look on her face.

'It's not too late to apologise to him, you know.' Parvati told her friend.

'Apologise!' Lavender shouted, 'Why should I apologise? He's an idiot. Haven't you been listening?'

'Yes, Lavender,' Parvati sighed resignedly. 'I've listened to you. I've heard the sad story of how yet another man has let you down. Now, if you know what's good for you, you're going to shut up and listen to me.'

'But…'

'Please just shut up and listen to me, Lavender,' Parvati interrupted firmly. 'For someone who prides herself in finding out everything about other people's relationships; and for someone who is always first to give advice on people's love lives, you're terrible at organising your own.'

'Mark Moon…' Lavender began.

'…Is a nice bloke, and you know that he is.' Parvati interrupted. 'First, take it from someone who has been married for almost three years, you are not as wise in the ways of men as you think you are.'

Lavender opened her mouth to protest, but Parvati pressed on.

'Be quiet and listen, Lavender,' she ordered. 'I've only met Mark twice, at the Ministry Christmas Ball and at the Potters' at New Year's Eve. He doesn't say much, he's definitely very … "reserved" is a good word, I think. But a lot of people are overwhelmed when they're at big functions like the Ministry Ball. My lovely husband doesn't like them much and, like Mark, Parindra just stays in the background and keeps quiet. An invitation to the Potters is even more exclusive; we're used to it, but someone like Romilda or Cormac would kill to get an invitation, you know they would. Harry and Ginny both like him. Perhaps he's always shy, but I had a long talk with him on New Year's Eve. He's polite, quite witty, and he fancies you something rotten despite the fact that you treat him like muck.'

'I don't!' protested Lavender.

'You do,' Parvati said. 'You made him promise not to talk about anything personal and you made it clear that you didn't want him to try anything on with you. Amazingly, he hasn't. How many blokes have you known who could you say _that_ about? Especially after six months of teasing and flirting from you.'

'He did try it on tonight.'

'Try it on? He asked you out on a proper date, because you acted like a jealous girlfriend and gave him hope,' Parvati reminded her.

'He broke the conditions.'

'Not until after you'd broken them.'

'I made them, and he agreed to them,' said Lavender desperately, realising how weak her defence was.

'He did, the fool. Like I said, you've never had a bloke who would agree to those rules, either. I suspect that he agreed because he hoped that he could win you over, and he has.'

'He has not!' _He can't have_, she thought stubbornly.

'Lavender, everything that he said to you is true, and everything that Muggle woman said to you is true, too. Three quarters of an hour ago, you turned up on my door in tears because you'd argued with Mark, and he'd stormed off and left you. Why did you argue? Because he was talking to another woman when you arrived! And remember that you were late, as usual. You acted like a jealous girlfriend, but you've spent months telling him, and me, and everyone else, that you're _not_ his girlfriend, that you're just mates. So, do you fancy him or not?'

'No!' Lavender shouted her denial.

'You _are_ impossible,' Parvati sighed. 'Okay, so when that guy, Jake, from the U.S. Department of Magical Justice asked you out, the weekend before Christmas, you went, but not until the Sunday night, his last night in the country.'

Parvati folded her arms across her swollen belly before continuing.

'Jake was in the UK for four days, three nights. Friday night was the formal meet and greet. That's when he asked you out—on the following night. But you told him that you had a previous engagement which you couldn't cancel. What did you do that Saturday, rather than go on a date with gorgeous Jake?' Parvati asked.

Lanender bit her lower lip and stared at the floor.

'What did you do, Lavender?' Parvati pressed.

'I went to Winchelsea Beach with Mark. We ate fish and chips from a paper and listened to the waves crashing on the beach in the dark. We talked about the conference, and I teased him about Jake.'

'Your "previous engagement" was fish and chips in the open, in December, with "the lanky scruff"! For that, you put off a bloke who you told me was "fit, gorgeous and a snappy dresser." When you did go out with Jake on the Sunday evening, he brought flowers. He wined and dined you and spent a fortune and then invited you back to his hotel for "a nightcap." You turned him down, and you told me why. You said that even though he was eminently shaggable, you'd assured Mark that you'd given up on one night stands; you'd said that you wouldn't sleep with a bloke on the first date. You told me that you didn't want to disappoint Mark. That's all true, isn't it?'

Lavender gave the slightest of nods.

'That's true, Lavender, isn't it?' Parvati pressed.

'Yes,' said Lavender in a low sibilant sorrowful hiss.

'He can't hear you; there's no need to whisper,' Parvati said with a smile. 'I think that you turned Jake down on the Saturday because of that promise. If you'd gone out with the Yank on Saturday, you would not have had an excuse to say no to spending the night with him on the Sunday.'

'That's not true,' denied Lavender.

'Believe what you want, Lavender. Try to convince yourself that Mark is just "a scruffy bloke who never says much," that he's "just a friend," and that you can both see other people. But remember this, you turned down your first chance of a shag in months because it would upset Mark. And, when you caught him talking to another women, a woman who you tell me was fat and frumpy, you came over like a jealous girlfriend.'

'He's called Moon!' Lavender protested, 'I couldn't be called Moon.'

'He hasn't asked you to marry him, Lavender!' Parvati laughed. 'But I think he will, if you let him. Personally, I think that Lavender Moon has a ring about it.'

'But, Moon!' Lavender continued to complain, 'I thought that he was cracking a werewolf joke when he first told me.'

'Lupin was called Lupin; perhaps the curse works in very peculiar ways. I'll mention that to Padma; that's something that the Department of Mysteries might be interested in.' Parvati grinned mischievously at her friend.

'He's ordinary looking and a scruff.' Lavender tried a different line of reasoning.

'So was Ron, that didn't bother you.'

'Ron dresses smartly now; that was just a phase he was going through. I was smart enough to realise that he'd mature.'

Parvati snorted dismissively. 'That's complete rubbish, and you know it is. Why does Ron look smart these days?' she asked.

'Dunno,' Lavender lied.

'Yes you do, it's because Hermione keeps him right. So, if you want Mark to be smart, smarten him up.'

'I don't know anything about him.' Lavender shifted to another, desperate, argument.

'You're Lavender Brown, the werewolf Auror, Lavender Brown the gossip. How the hell don't you know anything about him? You've been together for five months, and for the past two you've seen him almost every day.'

'I've never asked,' admitted Lavender.

'Exactly, why have you never asked?'

'Dunno,' Lavender mumbled. 'But anyway, he's not my type,' she said, playing her final card.

'He certainly doesn't fit with _your_ idea of an ideal man. You see yourself with a wealthy, smartly dressed and fabulous-looking bloke, and you imagine that the rest of us girls will be envious of you,' Parvati told her.

'But what you've actually had, in all the years since Ron and Seamus, have been a string of – admittedly really good looking – blokes, with great chat up lines. But half of them were thick and the rest were either narcissists or arrogant.'

'Not all of them,' Lavender protested.

'True, Cormac won all the prizes; _he_ was a thick and arrogant narcissist. None of them were reliable. Every one of them was after only one thing, and when they got it, they started looking for their next conquest. Somehow, they managed to turn you into them.'

'Is that really what you think?'

'I'm your friend, Lavender, and I'm very sorry to be the one to tell you this, but yes, that's really what I think. Just go, get out of here and sort yourself out. You're the only one who can decide whether you want Mark or not. Find out about him first, if you must, but really, you've had long enough to do that. You've been with him long enough to know what he's like as a person. If you decide that you want him, accept that you've been in the wrong and go and apologise to him.'

'Apologise?'

'He's asked you out twice, and you've turned him down both times. He's crazy about you and you've been horrible to him. What, exactly, has he done to upset you?'

'He was going to leave me!'

'Merlin, Lavender, how insane is that as an excuse? He said it himself; how can he leave you if you're not together? You have never given him any encouragement to stay, but he stayed anyway, until tonight. All this drama is simply because he was talking to an old school friend when you arrived. You asked me for my advice; I've given it. Find him and apologise.'

'You've never suggested that I apologise to a bloke before,' said Lavender, playing her last card.

'Because all the others were complete prats and I was happy to see you split with them.'


	4. Transit

**4: Transit**

Mark Moon loped languidly along the Royal Mile, past bright and boisterous bars and the last lonely piper. This was fantasy Scotland, the land of tartan and clan and kilt and bagpipes and haggis and whisky. It was a fiction, a confection, but walk down any side road or alley and you were in Old Town, the real city.

He'd walked for miles; for hours he'd strode through the streets of both the old and new towns thinking about everything and nothing. He had talked to himself. He had shouted at the waxing gibbous moon as it sneered down at him, reminding him that it would be full in two days. He had cursed his namesake, that bloated white orb in the night sky, and he had wept.

Nothing had helped. The only things his walk had achieved were to make him more depressed and to give him sore feet. Pain was good; it kept his mind off other things, like how one person could induce so many conflicting gut-wrenching emotions in him.

Who was he? He was the man who'd been strung along for months by the notorious Lavender Brown. He hadn't even got a proper kiss from her (apart from that once, under the mistletoe on New Year's Eve, when her lips had briefly brushed his). He'd told his workmates that they misunderstood her, that she wasn't really _like that_, but it seemed he'd been wrong. She was.

He had no idea what to do, where to go, so, after some hours, he'd decided to go home.

Normally, he stepped aside for other people; tonight people were getting out of his way, fast. As he approached the side street leading to his flat he glanced at his reflection in a shop window, it brought him to a sudden halt. What he'd thought was a stoic determination to keep his emotions hidden looked more like the angry and explosive scowl of a madman. He would definitely step out of the way of that expression if he saw it approaching.

He looked at his reflection carefully, trying to remember his own face. As he continued to examine himself, the wild-eyed lunatic reflected in the glass finally fled and his expression reverted to one of desperate sadness.

He'd been stupid. Janey had riled him, and he'd allowed himself to be drawn into an argument with Lavender. On the positive side, he'd finally plucked up the courage to ask her out on a real date again. On the negative side, as he'd feared and expected, she'd turned him down...again. On the positive side, that meant that he'd never see her again. On the negative side, that meant that he'd never see her again.

In an attempt to prevent tears from flowing again, he pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb.

'Take a good look; this is the face of an idiot,' he told his reflection.

'I think that you need to look lower, and to the right, to see that face,' Lavender replied. 'You're a difficult man to find, Mark, but everyone goes home, eventually.'

Her words Vanished his stomach; they created an empty void of nothingness beneath his ribs. He stared at her reflection in disbelief. She was, as always, immaculately made up, but there appeared to be red rims around her eyes. Had she been crying, too? _For him?_ He turned to look at her and confirmed what he'd seen dimly reflected in the glass. Her forlorn face and downcast eyes cast a Drought Charm in his mouth; as his tongue and throat turned instantly into parched desert he found himself incapable of speech.

Lavender filled the empty silence which hung between them. 'I'm the idiot, not you,' she said. He tried to form words, to say something, anything. But she didn't give him the opportunity to compose himself. She was talking rapidly and nervously; her usual flirtatious and funny chatter was absent. 'Have you eaten? I haven't, so I picked this up from the New Canton Carry-out, just around the corner. I had a long talk with the girl on the counter. She knew you; she said that you always bought either the Szechuan Chicken or the Satay Prawn. I bought both, and two portions of fried rice. I'll have the one that you don't want, or we could share. Or you can tell me to go away, and I'll leave you alone.' She sounded desperate. _For him?_

'Why?' he croaked as he finally managed to get his voice working.

'Why did I buy the food? As a peace offering; and because I'm hungry and I thought that you would be, too. Why did I come back? Because I've been stupid and I wanted to apologise.'

'How … did you … find me?' He struggled to speak, but finally forced out the words in as neutral a tone as he could.

'I couldn't, not at first. Finding your address easily enough of course, I _am_ an Auror, remember. But you weren't in, so I went off to find your local Chinese; you mentioned it to me once. I thought – hoped – that you might be there. You weren't, but I bought these anyway.' She held up the plastic bag.

'Then I waited at the end of your street. You were limping down the hill, and you stopped here and looked into the window; so I came to see why.'

Mark gazed at her in wondering silence. This was a trick, a trap; it must be. He said nothing.

'I'm sorry, I was rude and nasty and horrible. Can we be friends again?' she asked.

Lavender looked dejected, despondent and desolate. Her remorse seemed genuine, but he reminded himself that he'd seen her at work. She was, as she always reminded him, an Auror; she could be tough, or feminine, or helpless. She could be anything that was required to get the job done.

She was Lavender Brown, the werewolf, the only living Auror to have despatched a vampire.

She might be lying, but she might just possibly be sincere. His nerves afire, he decided to risk believing her. Could she possibly make him feel any worse than he already did? He wasn't certain. "Can we be friends again?" she'd asked. He decided not to answer her question, he needed time to think.

'I've still got that bottle of 25-year-old Firewhisky you bought me for Christmas,' he offered. She nodded, accepting his non-answer.

His nerves jangling, he strode briskly off down Black Friars towards his flat. Lavender scampered rapidly along behind him. The only noise was the hurried tap of her stilettos on the cobbles. Normally, he'd slow down for her; normally, he'd offer to carry her bags. He was being rude, deliberately rude; but it wasn't in his nature. He stopped, turned, and waited for her to catch up.

'Sorry,' he apologised, 'I'm forgetting my manners; shall I carry the food for you?'

She smiled and offered him the bag. He'd done nothing more than he usually did. It was simple politeness. He'd been taught to respect "the fairer sex," though he knew that most people thought that he was terribly old-fashioned. As he took the bag from her, their hands touched. He imagined that she prolonged the touch and that her fingers softly stroked the edge of his hand.

It wasn't his imagination, it was really happening. She was lightly stroking the edge of his hand.

He was struck by a sudden desire to drop the food and grab her, to force himself upon her. This lustful desire was gone in an instant, hauled back into its cage and replaced by a feeling of overwhelming guilt. How could he think of such a thing, he asked himself, even for the merest fraction of a second?

He shook his head to try to clear it and glanced surreptitiously at Lavender. She looked concerned, but still held his hand.

_Merlin, what if she could read his mind; perhaps she was a Legilimens. Did she know what he'd been thinking...had she guessed?_ She betrayed no sign. _What was that look on her face? Pity? Worry? Contempt?_ She said nothing. He was safe, and so was she; he was a gentleman, he reminded himself. He would be polite, reserved and quiet. He would never give in to desire.

He lifted the bag from her hands and broke contact with her. They continued silently on their way. He shortened his strides to allow her to keep up. They said nothing. He wondered if her silence was because she was as nervous as he was.

He thought back to their parting, their argument. He'd been rude to her. She'd been rude to him, too, but he should not have risen to Janey's barbed comments. Janey Scott had started this argument and then walked away and left them to it.

They turned into the close leading to the grey stone tenement which was his home. She'd never been to his flat, and he'd never been to hers. She wouldn't even tell him her address. That was part of the deal, too. He'd never tried to find it, in case she discovered that he'd looked. But she'd tracked him down and called at his flat. She'd been looking for him. Was that a good sign?

They were going to his flat – together. Suddenly, his mind switched to more mundane concerns. Had he done the dishes? How tidy was the living room? He'd left his clean laundry on the kitchen table. He began to panic. Could he make an excuse, dash ahead, and tidy up?

In his romance-riddled dreams he'd hoped, with no encouragement at all from her, that he'd eventually get her back to his place. But in those dreams he'd spent days getting the place tidy before she arrived. Increasingly worried, he opened the gate to the tenement block and strode towards the door. As they approached Lavender opened the front door with a wave of her wand. He stood aside and allowed her to enter first.

'My flat's on the top floor, and there isn't a lift,' he apologised. 'The place isn't very tidy, either, sorry.'

'Don't worry, Mark,' she assured him, 'I'll have seen worse, I'm sure.'

He followed her into the dimly lit stairwell and she scampered up the narrow stairs ahead of him. Her black-stockinged legs carried her upwards with a fluent and fluid grace. Her backside was soon at his eye height, and her skirt was short. He watched her skirt hem flapping and dancing in front of his face as they rapidly climbed the four storeys. It was exquisite torture.

He tried to ease his anguish by looking lower. Her calves were curved and well formed muscles moved rhythmically with every step. He became fascinated by the regularly repeated deformations and longed to reach forward and touch them. He looked lower still and discovered that he could even find pleasure in watching her slender ankles and the flexing of her Achilles tendons.

When they finally reached the top landing, and his head finally rose to be above hers, he heaved a sigh of relief.

'Are you out of breath?' Lavender asked, concerned. 'Are you tired? You've been walking the streets for hours, haven't you?'

'Yes,' Mark nodded, thankful for the excuse. He pulled out his key and opened the front door.


	5. Perihelion

**5: Perihelion**

His hall was completely unfurnished; simply a beige box with a door in the centre of each wall.

'The living room is through the door straight ahead,' he told her. 'The bathroom's on the right, if you need it.' As he spoke he desperately tried to remember how clean his bathroom was.

'What's to the left?' she asked, glancing at the other door.

'My bedroom.' He blushed. That question alone was enough to make him blush. He wondered how many men's bedrooms she'd seen, and sighed again. This was stupid, he was stupid.

'It's been a traumatic day, hasn't it?' Lavender observed, again misinterpreting his sigh. She opened the living room door. He nodded unhappily and prepared to allow himself to be hurt again.

They were dancing around each other, talking but not conversing. Before tonight, he had never shouted at her, he certainly had never been deliberately hurtful to her. Was she worried that he would finally explode?

She was going to ask if they could carry on, he decided. She was going to tell him that she still wanted to be friends.

"Can we be friends again?" that was what she had asked him in the street. He still hadn't answered that question, he could not, because the honest answer was, no. Friendship was no longer enough.

He was damned.

He silently stepped past her, opened the living room door and waved his wand. The lamps flickered into life. He watched Lavender curiously examine his living room. It was sparsely furnished. The polished wood floor was uncarpeted. One wall was covered in laden bookshelves while the three uncluttered walls were painted a bland magnolia. Two battered old black leather armchairs and a low table stood in the centre of the room and an old wireless stood on a smaller table next to the window. The only other furniture was an old walnut writing bureau and a stool. The room was spotless.

'This is a very tidy room. Will we eat here, or in the kitchen?' Lavender asked.

'In the kitchen,' he told her, nodding towards the other door. She strode towards it. He followed.

'This is very tidy, too,' she observed as she looked around the room. She sounded surprised.

'I need to move the laundry basket,' he pointed out. He lifted it from the small square kitchen table and placed it on one of the two chairs.

'The plates are in that cupboard, on the middle shelf, and the cutlery is in the drawer below. If you want tea it's in the pantry; cold drinks are in the larder.'

Lavender took his comments as an invitation, and opened both pantry and larder doors to examine the contents.

'No dirty dishes in your sink, no stale bread, and a well stocked pantry and larder,' she smiled. 'This is one of the tidiest bachelor kitchens I've ever seen, and I've seen…' She stopped mid-sentence as his face creased into gloom. There were several seconds of apprehensive and embarrassed silence as they both processed her words. She looked worried. The silence was like a Shield spell between them; he could feel it pushing them apart, but could not think of anything to say.

'I'll get the plates and cutlery,' she said eventually, her voice no more than a whisper. 'Are we sharing, half each?'

Mark nodded.

'You mentioned Firewhiskey,' she said. 'I think that I'd rather have tea, I saw a caddy labelled Jasmine tea in the pantry. If you make us some, I'll serve the food, is that okay?'

He nodded again. He still couldn't speak.

_They were such different people she had been with lots of men and he…_

_Until Janey had interfered they had been relaxed in each other's company; now they were walking on eggshells, they were both frightened that something would break, at least he was. Was she really scared, too? She was _in his flat_, and his voice and wits had left him. He needed to get away from her, to think. He filled the kettle and put it on the stove._

'Loo,' he announced, 'I'll make the tea when I get back.' He picked up his laundry basket and dashed from the kitchen. After putting the basket in his bedroom he stepped back into the hall.

He gazed at all four doors and wildly considered leaving, running away. But where could he go? He looked at the door, and decided that he wasn't that much of a coward. Walking into the bathroom, Mark washed his hands, threw water on his face and gazed miserably into the mirror. He again lost himself in his thoughts.

_I'm ordinary; she's extraordinary. I'm nothing much to look at; she is gorgeous. She is always immaculately dressed; she thinks I'm a scruff. She's famous; I'm no one._

_What can I give her? I listen to her. We both love sitting on beaches, listening to the waves. I can make her laugh. I love her. But she doesn't even fancy me. She wants us to be friends again. That's all she wants. Can I cope with that? Longing from afar is difficult, but being next to her is impossible._

_But she came back, and she waited for me to come home. She wants to talk. I have to listen, for her sake; who else will she tell her troubles to?_

His fate, he concluded, lay where it had lain ever since he'd first set eyes on her, several years ago. Everything was entirely in the hands of Lavender Brown. Resignedly, he walked slowly back into the kitchen.

The table was set and two plates of fried rice, Szechuan Chicken, and Satay Prawn awaited his arrival. Lavender had also made tea and found his Chinese tea cups, although the cutlery next to the plates showed that she hadn't found his chopsticks.

She stood beside the table, waiting for him. She had removed her leather coat and had hung it on the hook on the door, on top of his apron. She wore a pink scoop-neck cashmere sweater which clung distractingly to her curves. He glanced at the neckline and forced his eyes back up to her face. She smiled again.

'You always look at my face, look me in the eye,' she told him.

'It's a nice face, they're nice eyes,' he said without thinking. She rewarded him with her happiest smile and his stomach Vanished again.

'Sit, please,' he said, trying to cover his confusion. The only other person to have shared a meal with him in this kitchen was his mother. He drew out his spare chair and ushered her to her seat before sitting down himself.

'I'm starving,' she announced, taking a small mouthful of prawn and rice.

Suddenly, he was ravenous. He began to eat, forking rice and prawn into his mouth as quickly as polite eating would allow.

'I live in a village called Appledore in Kent, on a street called "The Street,"' Lavender announced. She told him the house number. 'I know where you live now. So it seems only fair that you know where I live. My parents live in Rye; it's only a few miles away. I'm an only child. My mum was a Greengrass; she married beneath her, or so the rest of her family said, because my dad's half-blood. He has a fishing business. Mum and Dad were proud of me after the battle, but I squandered their respect by getting in the papers for all the wrong reasons. I don't see them very often.' She paused and took another mouthful of prawn.

She had just rapidly and nervously broken her first rule: "We don't talk about families." Mark hastily swallowed his mouthful and reciprocated.

'My mum lives in Kirkcudbright; she's a Muggle. Dad's dead, and so is my sister. My dad was killed by Greyback not long after Thicknesse took over. My sister died … she died at Hogwarts … I was too late. I missed the first part of the battle.'

'Lillith Moon,' gasped Lavender. 'She was in my year, in Ravenclaw; Padma knew her well; I should have realised. The Carrows used to pick on her because her father was a werewolf!'

Lavender stared at him, her meal forgotten. 'Your father was a werewolf? Why didn't you tell me?'

'Because "we don't talk about families," Lavender,' he reminded her. 'That was one of your conditions. I keep my promises.'

'From now on, this is an unconditional relationship,' she blurted.

'What?' Mark spluttered. _Relationship!_ His heart soared, was relationship the same as friendship? He hoped not.

'What happened to your dad?' Lavender asked gently, ignoring his outburst.

'He wouldn't join the snatchers. Dad wasn't much of a wizard. He had never been taught; he wasn't allowed at Hogwarts because…'

'Because he was a werewolf,' Lavender finished his sentence for him, nodding sympathetically.

'Greyback came around in the November before the battle and said that he'd be back at the full moon. Dad sent Mum here to Edinburgh to keep her safe. They fought and dad … dad lost,' he told Lavender forlornly. She reached over, squeezed his hand, and smiled encouragingly.

Mum knew what Dad was; he told her before they married, but she married him anyway. It didn't matter to her; it doesn't matter to me that you're a werewolf, either.' He was close to tears as he spoke.

'I knew that Lillith was having a hard time at school. She was almost Mudblood, according to the Carrows. She was extremely clever, much cleverer than me, but with an untutored werewolf for a dad and a Muggle mum, she was scum to them. But I couldn't get her out of school, and I was needed where I was,' he was pleading with Lavender, desperate for her understanding.

'I was a trainee Bailiff in the Scottish Magical Law Office. The Ministry usually leave the Scottish Office alone. We do things our own way – different laws, different legal system. Thicknesse and Umbridge kept us busy, very busy. Do you know how many people our office arrested and sent to the Muggle-born Registration Commission?'

Lavender shook her head.

'One! Everyone else mysteriously escaped just before we got there. It's astonishing how inept we were.'

Lavender laughed.

It wasn't easy for us to be that incompetent, especially towards the end. In March, London sent a Death Eater up to keep a check on us. That's when we made our only arrest; she was a hundred and three, and she volunteered to be arrested. But while I was doing that my little sister was…'

He stopped and put his head in his hands.

'It's almost seven years ago, and I still miss her. I don't know exactly what happened to her.'

'I was there, Mark, at Hogwarts. You could have asked me what I knew. Why didn't you…' She caught his look and her face fell.

'Damn! You didn't ask me because I'd made you promise that we wouldn't talk about families … I'm so sorry. Do you want to talk about her now?' she spoke softly, her voice filled with remorse.

'Yes … no … I don't know … what's happening?' he asked her.

'I'm trying to make things better between us, but now I'm worried that I'm just making them worse. Do you want me to leave?'

'No!' His reply was desperate. She smiled sadly.

'Why do you put up with me?' she asked.

'Because you need someone to listen to you, and you're really a nice person, most of the time anyway …and you're beautiful, and…'

'Beautiful.' Lavender was dismissive. 'I'm hideous. Everyone leaves me, Mark, do you know why?'

'Everyone knows that you were attacked by Greyback during the Battle. He clawed your abdomen, and threw you off a balcony, and then went in for the kill. Everyone knows about your scars, too, and that you were in a wheelchair for almost two years, until you were bitten.'

'But no one ever sees my scars, because when they do, they run from Lavender Brown, the scarred werewolf,' she spoke with certainty.

'Your friends, your real friends have all stuck with you, Lavender. You're a werewolf, so what? You have a few scars? So what?' He stayed determinedly polite, refusing to lose his temper. Often, when she started on one of her rants, he could defuse it with humour. 'I promise that I won't run away.'

'You will,' she assured him, 'I'm maimed; they're curse scars; they will never fade. Every bloke who's seen them has left me.'

'Not me,' he said certainly.

'Have you ever seen anything like these?' she asked. She stood, pulled off her sweater with a flourish, and threw it onto the floor, revealing the five ragged claw scars she'd received from Greyback during the battle.

He wasn't looking at them. Her bra was pink and lacy and, in places, transparent. It certainly did not provide adequate cover. Forgetting his manners, he stared.

'The scars are lower down,' Lavender told him; she sounded amused rather than angry.

'But not as interesting to look at,' he said, still staring at her breasts, trying to imprint the sight in his mind and wondering if humour would work, or if he'd get slapped. 'Who cares about _scars_?'

He forced himself to look up into her face again. He immediately blushed.

'You were looking at my boobs.' She was trying to scold him, but was finding it difficult. She was tantalisingly close to laughing. He could tip her into laughter or anger; he'd need to be careful.

'You showed them to me.'

'I was showing you my scars.'

'You said, "Have you ever seen anything like these?" and took off your sweater; it was an easy mistake for me to make,' he explained.

She began to laugh. She leaned forwards, rewarding him with a closer look at her chest as she reached onto the floor. Then, she picked up her sweater and wriggled back into it. He simply watched. He was feeling light-headed.

'You're a nice guy, Mark.'

'I'm a "lanky scruff in tatty clothes," and "you don't know why you put up with me".'

'Are you always going to use my own words against me?' she demanded.

'Every time I can, sorry.'

'Oh, for Merlin's sake, stop apologising,' she ordered, 'Let's start again, shall we?' He took his chance, it was now or never.

'This is the last time I'll ask you. Do you want to go out with me,' he said, 'on a date, a real date?'

She waited for a few heart-stopping seconds before replying.

'Yes, whenever you want. We've probably been dating for months and I just didn't realise it, sorry.'

She leaned across the table and kissed him.


	6. Zenith

**6: Zenith**

'Are you sure about this?' Lavender asked nervously.

'Certain,' Mark told her as he sat on the edge of her bed.

Things had been moving with a bewildering speed over the past two days. He and Lavender had spent almost every off duty moment together. Now, for the first time, he was in her bedroom. This was their second "official" date, or so she claimed, and he was going to spend the night with her.

He'd arrived at her red brick dormer cottage soon after breakfast and they had spent the day exploring her part of the world. They had visited Hastings and Camber and several other south coast settlements before returning to sleepy Appledore.

He watched as she nervously paced the floor of her bedroom. The room was huge, as large as his living room and kitchen combined. It had originally been two bedrooms she'd told him. The two side walls sloped inwards following the roof, and each contained a dormer window.

He examined the room carefully, trying to remain calm. It was pink, and lilac and (of course) lavender, it was gauze and lace ruches, and definitely her. The bed was a large four-poster hung with pink lace. Only one thing looked out of place among the pastel flounces and frills. A steel cage, six feet on each side stood in one corner.

'You're the first man ever to see my bedroom,' she told him. 'This will be our first night together; I hope that it won't be our last.'

'It won't be,' he told her confidently.

'Oh, you're the expert now, are you?' she teased.

'On some things, yes,' he said. 'No one knows everything, you certainly don't.' She gave a disparaging snort.

'What do you think of my room?' she asked, raising her arms above her head and twirling around.

'It's … frilly,' he observed.

She laughed. 'Is that good, or bad?' she asked.

He shrugged. 'It's entirely you, essence of Lavender, so it must be good.'

'You are so sweet, Mark.' She pushed him back on the bed, jumped on top of him and kissed him passionately.

After a very enjoyable minute she rolled off him, stood, and began to unbutton her blouse.

'What are you doing?'

'Getting naked, of course, we don't have long and I don't want my clothes to get torn.'

'Torn?'

'It's happened before, Mark. I lost a very expensive leather bustier that way once.'

Mark wondered what a bustier was, it sounded interesting and he hoped that he'd find out one day. He watched as Lavender stripped to her underwear and hung skirt and blouse in one of several large wardrobes. She owned more clothes than anyone else he knew.

'Is the cage really necessary?' he asked.

'You know that it isn't, but it's a legal requirement,' she said. 'I know that you've got experience of this sort of thing, but this will be my first time, you know. I've never done it in front of an audience.' She stepped inside the cage and pulled the door closed. Reaching through the bars she locked herself in and matter-of-factly removed her underwear. His jaw dropped.

'Be a dear and put these in the laundry basket for me,' she said, handing him the flimsy scraps of black lace. They were warm in his hand. He examined them closely.

'Keep them as a memento, if you want,' she teased. Blushing, he stepped across to the basket and dropped them in.

'How are you feeling?' he asked from the corner, keeping his back to her.

'The moon is rising,' she said nervously. 'I can understand if you don't want to watch.'

She had misunderstood the reason he'd turned his back. He forced himself to turn and look. She was nonchalantly naked and he felt himself blushing again. She didn't notice.

'I can feel it in my bones. I've got ten minutes until sunset and the change – you don't have to suffer through this, you know,' she again offered him the chance to leave.

'I do,' he reassured her. 'I want to see you at your second-worst.'

'My second-worst? What's my worst?

'That would be, "without make-up, Mark, you wouldn't recognise me without my slap," apparently,' he said. 'At least, that's what you said at the Potters New Year party. So, I'm assuming that the slavering hairy creature you're about to turn into is better looking than you are without your makeup.'

'I say some stupid things sometimes.'

'Only sometimes?'

'Don't make me come out of this cage and teach you a lesson,' she threatened. He forced himself to look up at her face.

'You're in the nuddy, Lavender, it wouldn't bother me at all if you did,' he said. She stuck out her tongue at him.

'Stop joking, Mark, this is serious. The Lycanthropy-Plus potion has always worked for me before. It has always worked for everyone, but it's still only a couple of years old. I don't want i_you/i_ to be in any danger, so leave me in here, whatever happens. You'll know if I'm still me after the transformation because if the potion doesn't work I'll be trying to get through the bars to attack you.'

Mark nodded, 'I know, I saw my dad go through it often enough, and there was no potion at all in those days.'

'That must have been hard for you.'

'It was harder for him,' he assured her.

'If it does work I'll simply be sitting there, but please don't uncage me, I'd hate for something to go wrong.'

'Did you ever try the old potion, Lavender, the one Professor Lupin used?' he asked.

'No, this one was already being tested when I was bitten. I know a lot of people who used the old one. The side effects were serious; it always led to weakness and illness. Poor Remus Lupin always looked ill. This potion has fewer problems. I just have to release the beast, at least partially.'

'You will still be _you_, inside?'

'Yes, I retain my mind, but my body changes.'

'So you won't be able to talk.' He looked for confirmation.

'Obviously not.'

'You'll be stuck in a cage unable to talk and unable to escape, Lavender. You will just have to listen to me rambling. I could sing, very badly, or tell jokes, and you won't be able to stop me. There's the bright side for you.'

She began to laugh but stopped suddenly and grimaced.

I can feel the moon's pull. The sun is almost set. The transformation … aaargh … the transformation isn't pleasant. I won't blame you if you leave me and never come back. Aaargh. See you at moonset, if you're still here,' she gasped painfully.

'I'll still be here, Lavender, and you're certainly not going anywhere.'

'You don't smell afraid, Mark, thank you ... Aiieee!'

Mark watched carefully. Bones cracked and splintered, hair sprouted. Her spine twisted. Her pretty face elongated into a hairy snout. Her hands curled into claws, her back arched in pain and, finally, thankfully, female screams of anguish were changed by curse altered vocal chords into a wolf-like growl.'

'Lavender?' he asked.

The beast nodded its grey-furred head.

'You told me that the transformation didn't hurt. You lied,' he scolded gently.

Again, the beast nodded its grey-furred head.

'Please don't lie to me.'

The beast did its best to look remorseful, Mark smiled. Stepping forwards he reached into the cage and stroked her ears.

'Somehow, tonight, I don't think that it's me who'll "trot around like a well trained dog," Lavender. Did you know that your eyes haven't changed colour, not much anyway. They're a little more purple than usual, that's all. They are beautiful eyes.'

The beast-Lavender shrugged, pushed her head into his outstretched hand, and gave a contended grumble.

'Do you like that?' he asked, scratching her scalp. The contended sounds continued so he sat against the cage and continued to scratch. He began to talk. She curled contentedly on the cage floor and listened as he talked about his parents and his sister.

Six hours later, at about half past midnight, Lavender was asleep. He gently stroked her back and watched the rhythmical rise and fall of her chest. He continued to observe the sleeping wolf until, at half past three, he woke. His leg was in cramp and his shoulder was numb from being trapped between the bars. It had been three o'clock the last time he'd checked his watch and Lavender was still sleeping peacefully.

He carefully extricated his arm from the cage and tried to massage some feeling back into his shoulder and leg. Lavender did not stir.

"I'll be awake all night," she'd said, "but there's no need for you to stay awake with me." But he'd promised himself that he would stay awake, that he'd be with her; watching all night just as he'd done with his dad. This was so different, so peaceful compared to his youthful vigils. It was the potion of course. His dad had been a ravening, slavering beast on the moon-night, watched over to ensure that he didn't break free. Lavender was still Lavender.

She continued to sleep, so he sat on the edge of her bed and watched his girlfriend, the werewolf. i_His girlfriend/i,_ he smiled happily and raised an imaginary glass of thanks to Janey Scott. Lifting his feet onto Lavender's bed, he lay on his side and watched her. It was now four o'clock; sunrise was a little under two hours away, moonset was less than half an hour after that.

The next thing he knew was the soft caress of lips on his cheek.

'It's half-past ten, lazybones,' Lavender whispered. 'Thank you for a wonderful night. We have a couple of hours to get you clean and presentable before I take you to meet my parents. I'm making us some breakfast, and then you're going to have a bath and put on some smart clothes.'

'Mmmm…' He stretched and groaned. 'I'm going to work in two hours, Lavender. I have time for breakfast, but that's all. I probably do stink, sorry.'

'You do smell, but I've smelled worse. I i_am_/i smelling worse… What on earth is that?' she asked. He sniffed.

'That's the smell of my girlfriend burning eggs instead of frying them,' he told her.

Cursing, Lavender fled the room.


End file.
